Temporal
by Skull Bearer
Summary: The plans are laid. The pieces are set. Fistandantilus is preparing to disrupt the balance utterly, and Raistlin and Dalamar are the only ones able to stop him. When failure is not an option, at what price victory? Eleventh in I&E, set during Legends
1. Limbo

_Yes. I'm alive. Apologies of the obscene wait, but I think it's to be expected after a major nervous breakdown. Anyway, the update will be faster, although I'm now juggling an original work along with it, so that doesn't mean they'll be fast. However, I have the next few chapters plotted out so fingers crossed they'll come faster. I can't promise it'll go on beyond this, but I want to tie up this story on some sort of ending, so as I said, fingers crossed._

_This has not been beta-read. If anyone feels up for the job, please email me at __.uk_

_As it is, I apologise for any spelling mistakes the checker has missed._

**Temporal**

Limbo

_This is the End_

_Beautiful Friend_

_This is the end_

_My only friend_

_The end._

_-The End, The Doors._

It took longer than Raistlin had hoped for Fistandantilus' plan to commence. The lich was performing a difficult balancing act between more factions than Raistlin could perceive, and trying to rush things would only attract undue attention. Even though, with luck, none of them would be needed.

But at last, it seemed that the lich was ready to make the first step. Raistlin thinned himself out, making himself too small and insignificant and colourless for the creature to notice, and when the spell was cast, the walls weakened, and Raistlin was able to look out.

This mist was thick, and Raistlin didn't dare push and attract attention to himself. He couldn't allow impatience to force him to take risks, not this close.

_"Astinus."_

Raistlin didn't see the Chronicler, but felt him as he had Takhisis, and he knew he was also felt. He felt the lich's thoughts bend under the scrutiny, before forcing it away.

Then it was gone, and Raistlin hid himself away as Fistandantilus checked his thoughts carefully, only coming back when the lich's attention was once again turned outwards, on the woman, this priestess than Fistandantilus sought to make his cat's paw, the pure cleric he needed to open the portal. Raistlin didn't her name, Fistandantilus didn't care about it and Raistlin didn't bother looking. If his plan worked he'd have no need of her, and if it didn't she would be the least of his worries.

The lich's thoughts trembled with barely suppressed frustration, trying to charm her as Raistlin had seen him charm Caramon, however long ago that now was.

She was hostile, but Fistandantilus was confident she couldn't see what he really was. It occurred to Raistlin that if she could, he would have a possible ally. The thought was discarded and thrown over the Wall as useless. She would be as much use as Caramon in the circumstances. /Dalamar/ hadn't been able to help him, why bother looking for help from anyone else?

Raistlin paid half attention to what was going on outside now, nothing too vital to his plans it seemed, the rest of his mind fixed on the same task he had been working on since his plan had been made: Fortifying a Wall-within-a-Wall to imprison Fistandantilus once his past self had been defeated.

Outside, the lich was pleased, the cleric was falling well under his spell, attracted by his words and, to the lich's amusement, his stolen body too.

Raistlin's thought scattered and it was only with a terrific force of will that he held his new construction together against the waves of utter revulsion that shook it. He held on to it tightly, trying to push away the images crowding in on him. Amberyl. Raistlin turned away from them, bleached them of colour and tried to concentrate on the matter at hand.

It would not come to that. The lich would meet her perhaps once more, and no cleric, no matter how weak willed, would do- do that, after so short an acquaintance. After that they would be in Istar, Fistandantilus would be dead and he could blast the cleric into a thousand motes of dust is he wanted to. Or he would have failed, and then if rape was the worst thing he faced he would count himself fortunate. Focus. Work.

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Dalamar was leaning from the window when the cleric arrived. Fistandantilus had left the tower to meet her a few days ago, and had come back pleased -- if pleased was the right word for the expression of barely-human gloating that tortured it's stolen face -- and now the cleric was coming to meet it.

"Do you know what it has planned?" A useless question, speech for the sake of speech, for Dalamar to remind himself he was as yet still alive and not yet a Dead One.

Dalamar shuddered as Andras Rannoch joined him at the window, looking down; the proximity of the undead was like standing under a sheet of freezing water. It waved its hands in the closest approximation to a shrug, then pointed at the Shoikan Grove. Dalamar couldn't see anything. The Dead One clawed at where its throat had once been, then at its chest, then pointed again.

"You think she will make it through?" Had it been Raistlin there, Dalamar would have laid down a wager. The reminder still hurt, these years later, but they had become tolerable and less frequent as the years went on. Dalamar didn't know whether to feel reassured or horrified at this proof that anything could be gotten used to.

Another shrug, then Rannoch froze. Dalamar had learnt to recognise that expression. It mean Fistandantilus.

And indeed, the lich had just appeared below them, going out to fetch its cleric before -- he? She? It? -- became the newest Dead One in the Tower.

"A closer look?" Dalamar look at Rannoch, who responded with such a look of terror he almost laughed. "It is trying to impress the cleric; it wouldn't attack you in front of them. Take a look, how they talk; snatch a rag or hair from the cleric if you can. They are part of its plan; I might have to kill them."

Let no one say Andras Rannoch was a coward; the white eyes rolled as the dead mage tried to suppress terror with rage, and flitted down to gates where he had died.

Dalamar watched, catching glimpses of the lich and the cleric through the trees. White robes. One of the goodly gods then. Well, why not? Fistandantilus had been able to trick Raistlin; a goon of Paladin would be easy in comparison. Finally, he pulled away. The lich would expect him downstairs, and he would like a closer look at the cleric himself. Besides, if it saw him hanging out of the window it might become suspicious. As though it wasn't already. Dalamar swallowed fear as he descended the stairs towards the front door. Fistandantilus knew Dalamar was plotting against it, and more and more Dalamar was beginning to suspect it tolerated him not out of fear of the Conclave, but because it knew he could never hurt it.

Inhale, exhale. Push away fear and doubt. He would succeed. It would die. Perhaps tonight he would be able to decipher what the lich was up to and then it would be time to plot its destruction. There was no space for fear.

No space for doubt.

When Dalamar' opened the door, his face was as set and quietly polite as a mask. Nevertheless, the cleric flinched when she -- she -- saw him. Unsurprising, after a trip through the Grove.

"This is only my apprentice, Revered Daughter," That voice. Dalamar felt the mask of politeness slip. Every time, he got that bit closer to just throwing everything he had at the creature in the hope of killing it here, now and forever. "Dalamar is flesh and blood; he walks among the living -- at least for the moment."

Dalamar gritted his teeth. He had gotten used to the idea of dying here, after so long it was inevitable, but when the lich spoke of it, it regained the same fear it had had when Dalamar had first come here.

"My apprentice, Dalamar," Fistandantilus was all politeness again. "Lady Crysania, Revered Daughter of Paladine."

Dalamar took her in at a glance. Haughty, proud, ambitious, the big fish of her small pond, unaware that out here be dragons. Beautiful, maybe, but Dalamar had been three years a virtual prisoner in the Tower and with his only regular contacts being Fistandantilus, the Accursed and Andras, his ideals of beauty had warped a little. The woman looked more like a marble statue than a living thing. A mirror to the statue of Mishakal in Xak Tsaroth.

"Lady Crysania." Her hand was as cold as marble.

"An elf!" Wonderful. Such manners. "But, that's not possible, not serving evil --"

Dalamar hoped Rannoch had snatched something from the woman, having her killed was no longer a blow against Fistandantilus, but a point of personal pride. He didn't have to look at the lich to know its expression. "I am a Dark elf, Revered Daughter." If he hadn't been able to keep the bitterness out of his voice, at least he managed not to make the title sound sarcastic. "At least, that is what my people call me." Odd, after so long here, the memory of exile had lost its bite. Numbed under the avalanche of new misery.

"Of course, I didn't mean --" She looked down uncertainly at her hand in Dalamar's, then jerked it away.

"The Revered Daughter has had a fatiguing journey, Dalamar, please show her to my study and pour her a glass of wine. With your permission, Lady Crysania" -- Fistandantilus bowed -- "there are a few matters that demand my attention. Dalamar, anything the lady requires, you will provide at once."

"Certainly, _Shalafi_." Dalamar fought the words past the knot in his throat and led the priestess up the stairs. Oh Nuitari, let it not have noticed Rannoch, please. I've gone through this much; let it not have guessed it was him. He barely paid attention to what he was doing, leading Crysania to the study on autopilot, absently noticing the fire had been lit for the first time since his first day in the Tower, and serving her the wine and food. Please Rannoch, please, run. The Spectre was clever, and had had three years worth of experience hiding. But this was Fistandantilus, and if it had realised even a fraction of what Dalamar and Rannoch were trying to do, even walking through walls wouldn't save them.

"What fruit is this?" The cleric's voice shattered in on his thoughts. "I've never seen anything like this before?"

Oh please, Nuitari, have mercy. "It is fruit from the isle of Mithras." And it arrived this morning. Probably to impress you.

It succeeded. "Mithras? But that's the other side of the world! Minotaurs live there." Well done, we know our geography. "Who brings it?"

Not me. I'm not allowed out. "Try it." I hope you choke on it. "It is quite delicious."

"Does your master often eat so? He seems so dreadfully frail."

My master doesn't eat. My master doesn't live. You are lusting after a corpse, my lady. "I do not know, we take our meals separately. Now, if you need nothing more, lady, I will retire. I have my own studies to pursue."

And an ally to check is still... in existence, at least.

"Of course. I will be fine here." Then. "He is your teacher, then, is he any good? Do you learn from him?"

Only the depths to which hatred and ambition can have you sink. Magic be damned, given the choice, should he ever survive this, Dalamar would gladly erase all memory of the last three years from his mind.

Dalamar stared at the wall, and Crysania prompted again. "I have heard he is the most skilled-"

"He is, my lady." Dalamar's voice was curt. "The most gifted. Now, if you please --"

"Certainly." She seemed to have already forgotten him.

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Dalamar walked down the stairs to the kitchen rather than magicking himself there. He needed the time to calm down, hitting the wall would result in a broken hand, but the urge to do it was almost overwhelming. He compromised by slamming the kitchen door as hard as he could. Heavy as it was, it barely moved any faster than usual.

Andras Rannoch floated out uncertainly, clearly wondering if it was him Dalamar was angry with. Bad mood forgotten, the Dark elf smiled. "Oh good. I was worried. It vanished for a while and I thought--" The wrong words. Had Rannoch been alive, he might have fainted. "But it didn't." Dalamar added quickly. "Do you have--"

Rannoch held up a few dark threads from one incorporeal hand.

"Excellent. Here please."

Hair definitely, slightly frosted from the Dead One's hand. Black hair, longer than his own. The cleric had had black hair. "Definitely from her?" This was no time for mistakes. A nod. "Good. We might as well start here. They will be busy upstairs for a while, and the Accursed would probably betray us if we tried the pool of seeing."

Dalamar licked his fingers, and picked up one single hair. The others would be needed later, but for now, one would do. _"Kairseth Mikras, Arkenth Rok_..." A soft murmur, air around the hair glowed, a soft sphere. The warmth of the magic filling him, Andras' ravenous eyes watching him, jealous beyond death for what he had lost.

Then, loud as though she was in the room with them, Crysania's voice.

"-The power is evil!

Even though he'd expected it, Dalamar couldn't help but start, and Rannoch cringed as Fistandantilus' voice came through, less loud, but just as clear; "Is it? Is ambition evil? Is my quest for power, for control over others evil? If so, then I fear, Lady Crysania, that you may as well exchange those white robes for black."

"How dare you--"

Dalamar propped his face on his hand, watching the single hair tremble like the string from a harp. It had taken him a long while to find this spell. Untraceable and undetectable, and that allowed him to hear everything the hair's owner could. Fistandantilus wanted to get the cleric on its side, make itself out to be less than evil. Dalamar wondered if he could try and convince the cleric otherwise, then abandoned the thought. She didn't seem all that clever, and the same obstacle always came up when he thought of telling anyone -- they would think him mad.

The argument went on, strange and hard to follow without expressions to or body language to see, and then the lich showed the cleric something that clearly agitated her -- some proof of humanity's innate evil or some such-- on the Dragon Orb.

"We are not so very different." Fistandantilus' voice was low, as soothing as the lich could get it. "I live in my tower, devoting myself to my studies. You live in your tower, devoting yourself to your faith. And the world turns around us."

"And that is true evil." Crysania sounded dazed. "To sit and do nothing."

Of course she'd fall under his spell. Caramon had done so, Tanis had done so, even Andras and Raistlin had once done so. Dalamar wondered what it was about himself that left him immune.

"Now you understand." Rannoch leant in closer. Dalamar smiled at him a little. Sometimes he wondered how dedicated the Dead One was to this, this was reassuring. "No longer am I content to sit and watch. I have studied long years for one reason, one aim. And now it is within my grasp." Dalamar barely dared breathe. Please, please. "I will make a difference, Crysania. I will change the world. That is my plan."

Come on, come on. Get to it.

"Your plan!" Crysania sounded as though she'd finally woken up. "It is the plan Paladine warned me of in my dream." Dalamar and Rannoch looked at each other. On one hand, if the Gods were getting involved it was a good thing; they could use all the help they could get. On the other hand, if Fistandantilus' plan was worrying the Gods themselves, it even worse than they had thought. "The plan to change the world will cause the world's destruction." Oh help. "You must not go through with it! Paladine-"

"Paladine will not stop me, for I seek to depose of his greatest enemy."

_What?_

"Listen, I will make it clear."

Neither of them said or signed anything even after Dalamar had negated the spell. The Dark Queen. The lich was out to kill the Dark Queen. Dalamar watched Rannoch and Rannoch watched Dalamar, and Dalamar knew they were both waiting for the other to make so disparaging remark as to how all of this was impossible and the Dark Queen would dice Fistandantilus to ribbons in seconds. Neither of them said anything, because Fistandantilus was mad enough and powerful enough to succeed.

"And we do what?" Dalamar voiced the question that had been hanging in the air. "We let it? The Dark Queen dies and we live in a world where Fistandantilus rules? Where this tower becomes the whole world? Or it destroys the world trying?"

Rannoch didn't move.

Oddly, it was a little easier now. There wasn't going to be a plan, because they didn't have anything remotely powerful enough to deal with this. If there was going to be a plan, it was going to be stupid and self-destructive and direct. There wasn't going to be subtlety because that would be the first thing the lich was expecting, and subtlety required secondary aims. Right now there weren't any. If Dalamar had to take out half of Ansalon to kill the lich, so be it. If he had to destroy the Tower to kill the lich, so be it. If he had to die -- well, Dalamar had been resigned to this possibility from the beginning anyway, and after this long he was only vaguely attached to his own life. He looked down at the ring on his hand, the ring of healing.

Whatever they had to do, whatever happened. He'd keep this ring for the end, so that whatever happened he'd still be alive enough to get out of the Tower and die outside.

Dalamar rubbed his face. "We wait. I have to anyway. If I can find out anything I will, but for the time being I'd prefer do nothing until I can alert the Conclave. When they know then maybe... maybe..."

Rannoch's expression told him all he needed to know of what the Dead One thought of that plan. The Conclave had been helpless before the lich's machinations in his time, and he didn't have any hope they'd know better now.

He sighed. Tired. Always tired now. "But if we find a way of killing the cleric, we do it. It will only delay its plans, but that's better than nothing. If we find a way."

Rannoch didn't move, but then, there was nothing to say.

_Please Review  
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_Skull Bearer_


	2. Mechanus

_Okay, sorry for a newly long wait, but i hope things will be going better from now on. For now, please enjoy._

**Planar**

Mechanus

_Of our elaborate plans,_

_The End._

_Of everything that stands,_

_The End._

_I'll never look into your eyes,_

_Again._

_The End, The Doors._

Raistlin closed the cage tight in preparation. He hardened the old grief and new fear that he'd used as a shield for so long into an impenetrable wall. It wasn't as strong as the Wall, but Fistandantilus had had years to create it, and Raistlin didn't. It wouldn't have to hold for long; minutes, heartbeats.

But Raistlin had been in here so long that time was elusive and hard to judge now. But hopefully, maybe. He hardened the cage as best he could, like pouring water on a wall of ice, freezing layer upon layer and hoping it wouldn't shatter like ice when it was time to test it.

It was a risk and Raistlin was no longer so sure it was worth it. If it didn't work, he would lose utterly. Fistandantilus would realise what Raistlin was trying to do, and it would be over in ways Raistlin didn't want to imagine.

No. It was a risk, but it was no worse than most of the risks he had run, and for much less. To win, to have all that power and knowledge... and on top of all, to kill that foul monster of a lich. Worth the risk, more than worth the risk. If Raistlin could breathe, he would have inhaled and exhaled to calm down. As it was, he gathered the thoughts of calm around his mind against him until the fear was covered enough to be ignored.

He'd picked through the lich's thoughts and the creature's plan had slowly taken shape. Raistlin was glad he had looked, even if everything came off as planned and the monster was dead, dead dead, there would still be one variable Raistlin had not foreseen: his brother.

It was not exactly surprising. Fistandantilus had just about told him as much, mocking him to have thrown away a tool as useful and as willing to serve as Caramon. The lich had been planning to use some local gladiator to be his muscle, but with Caramon so available he had reconsidered. To bring the oaf along with the cleric, and break them both to his loyalty.

Not that such would have been needed for Caramon. Fistandantilus would only have needed to ask, to give the man the slightest attention or whatever mockery of kindness the lich could muster and Caramon would be his slave. Raistlin had received as much when he had made it clear he didn't care if Caramon lived or died.

It was strange; he could almost see his own hatred. There was far more of it than he'd expecting, hate piled on older hate layer over layer like the walls he was building. He wondered how long he'd been fooling himself that he'd ever felt anything else towards his brother.

Raistlin hesitated, he could use this, but the thought of touching that old helpless hate and loathing just made him feel ill. It was tough, strong, hardened by years. Yes, that could work. He would use this.

Remembering the constant, endless patronising, the coddling that Raistlin wondered if he'd ever needed. Once Caramon was gone, he had survived perfectly well with only Dalamar's help, and all the things that he'd thought he was unable to do were no longer that hard. He remembered Caramon's utter willingness to believe Fistandantilus' lies, the blind faith in the fools eyes, and knotted the rage that gathered with the fear and pain of the cage.

More strength, a tighter mesh. A more secure cage to lose Fistandantilus in when the time came. Raistlin closed his thoughts to it, it was exhausting, the hate drained him in a way the older emotions didn't. Finished, Raistlin pulled away, into the shadows of the Wall to rest, out of sight and away. He was tired and he wanted it to be over, so he could just go home at last.

If there was one thing Raistlin was grateful for, it was the Dalamar was not to be found in any of the lich's thoughts he had found. Wherever the Dark elf was, it was somewhere not even Fistandantilus could reach. Perhaps in the Tower of High Sorcery, plotting against the lich himself. Raistlin would have smiled. That would take some explaining. But surely, once the elf saw him he would know. He had known in Neraka and would have told the Conclave that this wasn't him. They would believe him, Par-Salian must have known about the lich already. They would know, and he would explain and it would be _over_. Over at long last, and he and Dalamar would go home- wherever home was right now- Wayrath or Palanthas maybe.

Explain to the poor apprentice Fistandantilus had been tormenting what had really been going on and send him back to Wayreth with some form of compensation. And then he could rest, relax for the first time in years in Dalamar's arms and sleep. By the Abyss, he'd probably sleep for months.

Raistlin leant against the wall, letting those hopes go and fly into the blind world beyond the wall. Later, he would think about this. Later when there was no longer any chance of being noticed, when he was once again alone in his own mind.

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The first Dalamar knew about their next visitor was Andras Rannoch slipping into his study through the door. Dalamar didn't stay here often; the kitchen was warm and in every way more alive than the rest of the Tower, and staying in the study was like living inside a skull. But his spellbooks were here and moving them to another place would be a good way to be forbidden it.

He looked up as Rannoch drifted in, irritated at being interrupted. The Spectre waved its hands wildly, and Dalamar closed his spellbook. Whatever had agitated the Spectre would undoubtably be important. He followed Rannoch out of the door, and to the far window in the corridor. Dalamar looked out, and frowned. Beyond the Shoikan Grove, a dragon was flapping against the sunset like an overgrown bat.

"There are a lot of dragons nowadays." Dalamar said wearily. There hadn't been in Rannoch's lifetime, or even for most of his death. He'd probably never seen one since Fistandantilus had torn him down from the Tower railings.

Rannoch pointed again, then beckoned, and now Dalamar could see what he meant. The dragon appeared to be trying to fly closer, its wings beating against the wall of fear around the Grove like a moth around a lantern. Then it vanished as it landed.

"A new guest for the lich." Rannoch flinched at the mention.

A new one to watch, and a dragon rider no less. Unless Fistandantilus meant to make alliances with the dragon itself. Rannoch caught hold of his robe and tugged, its touch was ice. Dalamar followed, down the stairs with his robe still held tightly in the Spectre's hand, to the landing above the entrance hall. Where Fistandantilus was waiting.

Rannoch vanished behind the pillar, but Dalamar stayed at the rail, waiting. Fistandantilus had the door open, waiting to welcome its latest guest. Two in as many weeks, it would not be long now before its plan was implemented.

"I am overjoyed to see you too, my sister."

Dalamar frowned, and glanced at Rannoch -- _Fistandantilus has a sister_? -- before it became obvious.

"I should kill you!" Kitiara stormed in, dragonhelm removed, dark hair sticking up in clumps.

Fistandantilus ignored her, and turned to a figure that had materialised out of the shadows.

"Lord Soth." Dalamar flinched, and took a step backwards through Andras Rannoch. Sweet Nuitari, not two of them. "Knight of the Black Rose, who died in flames in the Cataclysm before the curse of the elfmaid you wronged dragged you back to bitter life."

"Such is my tale." The Death Knight's voice was as dead as the lich's. "And you are the master of the Past and Present, the one foretold."

Heartbeats stretched out as the two undead beings studied each other, and even Kitiara was silent, sensing if not understanding the conflict going on before her.

"Your magic is strong." It was almost mockery.

Soth did not seem irritated, if indeed he was capable of it after so long. "Yes. I can kill with a single word. I can hurl a ball of fire into the midst of my enemies. I rule a squadron of skeletal warriors, who can destroy by touch alone." Dalamar remembered the dead of Darken Wood, but didn't shudder. How far had he come, that that terrible memory was unable to raise a spark of fear any more. How dark the path had become.

Lord Soth Stepped forward and bowed to Fistandantilus. "But I bow in the presence of a master."

Even at such a distance, Dalamar saw the shock and anger of Kitiara's eyes; she was a fool, unable to see what truly stood in front of her. But she was a strong fool, and a possible ally. If she hated Fistandantilus as strongly as she seemed to, well, then Dalamar would be willing to work with her.

"Disappointed, my _dear_ sister?" Fistandantilus hissed.

The anger disappeared in a flash and Kitiara smiled; her warm, crooked, painfully familiar smile. "Of course not, little brother, after all it was you I came to see. It's been too long since we visited. You look well."

"Oh I am, dear sister." Dalamar wondered if Kitiara was so far gone that she saw anything of Raistlin in that moment. The words sounded so inhuman that Dalamar's stomach clenched, and wondered if the Dead Ones had been blessed in their silence.

Fistandantilus lay a hand on Kitiara's arm, whispering mockingly of Neraka, and that fall of the Dark Queen.

"Thanks to your treachery," Kitiara snapped, and tried to pull away, but Fistandantilus' hands were dead as the rest of him, and their grip was iron.

The lich laughed, and this time even Kitiara paled. Dalamar pulled away as the two of them neared the stairs.

"Shall we talk of treachery, my dear sister? Did you not rejoice when I used my magic to destroy Lord Ariakas' shield of protection, allowing Tanis Half-elven to plunge his sword into the body of _your_ lord and master? Did not I -- by that action -- make you the most powerful Dragon Highlord in Krynn?"

Dalamar backed away as the two climbed the stairs, talking politics, Dalamar always stayed one landing ahead of them, out of sight, but not out of hearing. Rannoch had already hidden somewhere, probably in the attics.

"-- I admit I was a little surprised at the courage of Lady Crysania --"

Dalamar stopped, hands flat on the wall, downstairs, the footsteps had stopped.

"Lady Crysania!" Kitiara sounded astonished. "A Revered Daughter of Paladine! You allowed her -- here?"

"I not only allowed her, I invited her." Gloating. "Without that invitation and a charm of warding, of course, she could never have passed."

"And she came?"

"Quite eagerly, I assure you." A pause, and Dalamar felt ice trickle down his spine. "Quite eagerly."

Kitiara laughed, a high, shrill laugh which sounded far too forced. Peering around the corner, Dalamar saw Fistandantilus smile at her, and the laughter stopped immediately. "Come," he gestured towards the door, "Let us talk; it has been too long since we have talked, my sister."

Dalamar didn't dare touch the door to Fistandantilus study, the lich always knew he was there when he did, so listening at the keyhole was out of the question. Instead, he sat on the landing beside the door, listening to the snatches of conversations from inside. Half an hour into his vigil, Rannoch returned and sank down through the floor until they were eye to eye, a question in his dead eyes.

"She is the sister of the man the lich is possessing." Dalamar whispered, so low even he could barely hear it, but Rannoch would have no trouble. He hugged his legs, and exhaled. "She hated him, no wonder they get on." Spitting.

Rannoch waved towards the door, again questioning.

"He is trying to win her as an ally, she has a large army." By the expression in the Spectre's eyes, he was feeling sorry for Kitiara, it was almost amusing.

The hand gestured to him, reminding Dalamar of Darken Wood, why was he here?

"If she doesn't bend to his will, and she might not, I doubt she is the kind to share power, then she will be his enemy, and our ally." As vile as he found Kitiara, and a rare as the warning from the Silvanesti Nightmare still was, it would be worth the risk to count a Dragon Highlord as an ally against Fistandantilus. Rannoch's eyes bobbed in a nod.

---------------------

The sounds from within were muted, the low voices mixing with the cracking of a fire until only a few snatches of conversation were audible. By what Dalamar could piece together after listening for several hours, Fistandantilus was telling Kitiara the same story as he had told Crysania.

"This plan of you is crazy!" Kitiara's voice, shockingly loud made them both jump. Dalamar was stiff with cold and tiredness, and nearly gave into the urge to press his ear to the door. "It's senseless! A waste of time. With your help, we could rule Ansalon, you and I. In fact --" Gods, she was stupid. "-- With your power we could rule the world. We don't need that Crysania or your hulking brother--"

"Rule the world?" The scorn in Fistandantilus' voice was palpable. "Rule the _world_? You still don't understand; do you, my dear sister? Let me make this as plain as I know how."

Dalamar didn't hear what was said, but Kitiara spoke up, too loud, perhaps she was drunk. "You don't want to rule the world, then that leaves only--" She broke off, and Dalamar smiled sadly to Rannoch, at last, she understood.

"_Now_ you understand, now you see the importance of this Revered Daughter of Paladine! It was fate which brought her to me, just when I was nearing the time of my journey."

Rannoch seemed the shrink, as though tempted to sick through the floor and away. The Spectre had seen Fistandantilus' 'fate' at work.

"How -- how do you know she will follow you? Surely you didn't tell her!"

"Only enough to plant the seed in her breast, my performance was, frankly, one of my best. Reluctantly I spoke, my words drawn from me by her goodness and purity. They came out, stained with blood and she was mine... lost through her own pity. She will come, she and that buffoon of a brother. He will serve me unwittingly of course. But then, that's how he does everything." Dalamar felt sick, the lich's gloating was like drinking a draught of poison. He wanted to break something.

A long silence, Dalamar could almost hear Kitiara digesting his words. "You can be on a winning side for once, my sister."

Dalamar smiled, Fistandantilus had made a mistake, Kitiara would never join him now.

"I must get back," she sounded distant, not hostile, but then she wouldn't show that, yet. "You will contact me upon your return?"

"If I am successful, there will be no need to contact you, you will _know_."

Rannoch touched Dalamar's arm, dragging at his sleeve. It took Dalamar a moment to realise what he wanted. The two within were about to leave and it would go badly for him if he were seen here. He got up stiffly, joins aching. Rannoch urged him upstairs, but Dalamar descended, listening at the voices as the door of the study opened. "Farewell then, my brother. I am sorry you do not share my desire for the good things in _this_ life!" And _there_ was a threat if Dalamar had ever heard one. "We couldn't have done much together, you and I!"

"Farewell Kitiara," Fistandantilus hissed, "Oh, by the way. I owe you this life, dear sister. Or so I have learnt. I want to let you know that -- with the death of Lord Ariakas, who would have undoubtedly have killed you -- I consider that debt paid. I owe you nothing." The door closed like a death knell.

Dalamar heard Kitiara's boots clumping downstairs and leant against the wall, he waiting until Kitiara had drawn parallel to him, too busy with her thoughts to see him, before he stepped forwards. "Kitiara."

The Dragon Highlord jumped, almost dropping of the landing. "Dalamar!"

"It has been a long time, has it not?"

"I shouldn't be surprised, where you get one --" She glanced upstairs.

Dalamar crossed his arms, "He is dead to me." And no truer word was spoken.

"You know he's mad." Kitiara frowned, he could see her thinking it over. She was finally thinking along his lines, although she must still hate him, having an ally in an enemy's stronghold was no weak advantage. "He must be stopped. You'd be willing --"

"Please," Dalamar smiled thinly, "Let me walk you to the gate." He would ally with a viper if there was a chance for it to kill Fistandantilus.

Lord Soth swept down behind her, and she turned irritably to the Death Knight. "It will not be easy, I know," She snapped. "But we do not have to confront him directly. His scheme hinges on Lady Crysania. Remove her, and we stop him."

"I want him dead." Dalamar said shortly. "If you think this would be enough to stop him—"

"It will buy us time. He need never know I had anything to do with it, in fact. Many have died, trying to enter the forest of Wayreth. Isn't that so?"

It was probably not meant as a barb, but Dalamar gritted his teeth anyway. Fistandantilus would probably know it was she who killed Crysania, but he wasn't about to say that.

Dalamar opened the front door. "Wait." He beckoned Rannoch, who nodded. The Spectre knew what he meant. "Get it."

Kitiara paused, waiting at the entrance, she turned to Soth. "You handle it. Make it appear to be... fate." She murmured. "My little brother believes in that, apparently." Dalamar snorted. "When I was small, I taught him to refuse to do my bidding meant a whipping. It seems he must learn that lesson again!"

Dalamar sneered, "If you think you can conquer him alone, girl, you have much to learn, he is more powerful than he was in Neraka, more powerful than he was in the Dream." He looked at her.

Kitiara quailed, then tried to cover it with a smile. "You remember—"

"Oh yes, I remember." Rannoch returned; a thread of hair in his hand. Dalamar took it, and handed it to Soth. "Here, a hair from the cleric. I am sure you will find use for it."

Soth nodded, Kitiara smiled. "Well, this is a surprise, I didn't think you would—"

Dalamar sneered. "Go, before he suspects something. You have the stone, and _he_ will be gone soon. Come back after he leaves, after you have killed the cleric."

Kitiara gave her crooked smile, and turned to leave, running one hand down Dalamar's shoulder. The Dark elf stiffened. "If you remember that dream, you'd better not forget how it ended, hmm?"

Dalamar said nothing, watching until they left. He touched his shoulder, through the gloves and his thick robes, Kitiara's hands had been warm. It had traced down where her sword had cut him down in the Dream. "I wonder if she remembers how it ended for her?" He murmured to the Spectre's confused eyes, and closed the door.

_Skull Bearer_


	3. Hades

**Temporal**

Hades

_The End._

_I'll never look into your eyes,_

_Again._

_The End, The Doors._

_Waiting was like being suspended, half asleep and half awake, forbidden both. There was no more to do, adding more thoughts to his cage would just bend his mind towards it and attract Fistandantilus' attention, he just had to wait, curling up among his thoughts with none of his own and waiting for the right moment. It was easier not to think here, where thoughts were solid and he had learnt to simply bat them away. Control, above all._

_Something flickered, snapping Raistlin's attention. The Wall was weakening. Raistlin started, only just pushing away the surprise that it was already time. He slipped through the Wall, and into the thin flickers of colour which was all he could make of the world outside._

_He could not see much, as though wearing horse blinkers and his eyes veiled with gauze. But he saw enough to know this was not Istar. This was the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas, the seeing pool deep underground. The Wall always weakened when the lich used it. Still, Raistlin watched anyway. They lich was checking up on his pawns, making sure they were moving in his favour._

"She's dead..."

_Despite the veils, despite the rippled surface of the pool, Raistlin would always recognise Caramon. The large man was kneeling beside the body of a young woman, which, judging by the lich's flashes of rage; must have been the young cleric it had been planning to lure into Istar and use._

_She seemed to be indeed dead, if the lich's fury was anything to go by. Raistlin's anger almost equalled it, everything that delayed the lich's plans made it more likely that his own would fail, and at the very least that he would be trapped for longer._

_His brother looked well, Raistlin thought bitterly. Gods, for Fistandantilus to trust the cleric's safety to that brute. Just as well the idiot had a few substitutes._

"I -- I'm not sure Caramon. I think --"

_And the kender, on top of everything. What a wonderful plan the lich had in mind. Although Fistandantilus was calming now, less angry._

"I've seen death often enough, believe me. She'd dead. Tika was right, I shouldn't have come. I should have talked to Tanis... I should... It's my fault..."

_"That filthy fool." It was horrible to hear, even through the thinned wall, his own voice as spoken by Fistandantilus. Nails on slate was nothing to the sheer wrongness inherent in that. "What happened? What went wrong!"_

_Flashes of thought, Fistandantilus had sowed the thoughts of reaching Caramon into the priestess' thoughts. She had clearly done this, had convinced Caramon and more particularly his wife into coming with her, for 'Raistlin's' sake of course._

"What are you doing?"

"Digging a grave. We've got to bury her."

_Raistlin wanted to hit something, and the frustrated urge only made him angrier, so close! Now what? Fistandantilus was seething._

_"Bury her?" Hissed through gritted teeth. "Bury her! Of all the things he can think of to do!" The lich turned to something Raistlin was quite grateful his blurred vision could not focus on. "What did you see?"_

_Raistlin listened carefully, so draconians had come, but Caramon had killed them, well, the big man was useful for something at least. Then the... thing described a 'big dark with eyes of fire', whatever that was. The world was getting harder to see, the Wall was thickening, sight and hearing blocked. He thought he heard something, a voice that... well, never mind. He it was always confusing when the Wall came back up. He slipped out again through the cracks, and listened to the lich's thoughts._

_Kitiara, the stupid bitch had sent one of her minions to kill the cleric. Fistandantilus had tried to use her, and she had double-crossed him. Gods, was the lich trying to use everyone close to Raistlin? Gods, he hoped Dalamar was far away, he was sure the lich would have thought of that and where he was concerned even Wayreth would not be far enough._

_And wasn't it typical of his sister that even now, she would do everything in her power to thwart Raistlin's plans. It would do little good, though, he could feel Fistandantilus plotting a new course-_

_Raistlin snapped back behind the Wall just in time, seeing the lich's intent only moments before it was acted on. He shot behind the Wall and huddled under the shields and cages as the lich's thoughts swept out like a hurricane, searching through Raistlin's memories._

_It was revolting, like being pared apart, without pain but with the sickening feeling of being defiled. His thoughts scrutinised, and thrown away as worthless. Raistlin crouched, gathered his secret thoughts and the mental cage inside the shell of grief that had served him for so long. Fistandantilus slipped over, dismissing it, and, having found what he was looking for, left, washing back over the wall and away to reality._

_Raistlin slipped out, trying to gather the thoughts scattered by Fistandantilus' ravages. Memories and thoughts confused and out of order. Here fragments of his childhood, there a piece of his Test... Raistlin tried to sort through them, what had Fistandantilus been looking for?_

_Fragments of old memories, from... how long had it been, months or years ago? In Xak Tsaroth. Raistlin hesitated -- what was the lich looking through that for? -- and risked passing back through the Wall. Fistandantilus was once again concentrating on the outside, and the Wall had weakened enough for Raistlin to once again see outside, Fistandantilus must have cast a spell. He could make out Caramon again, and the cleric and Tasslehoff, and another small figure-_

_Had he a face, Raistlin would have grimaced. Bupu, the little gully dwarf from Xak Tsaroth. That was what the lich had been after. How in the Abyss had she gotten here? Was the lich determined to drag everyone Raistlin had remotely cared about into this mess? Who would he have to worry about next, Weird Meggin? Gods, please let Dalamar be safe. Raistlin didn't know if the gods could hear prayers spoken by people haunting their own minds, but please._

_Voices echoed from outside:_

"Me help."

"No, Bupu!"

"You no like my magic! Me go home. But first me help pretty lady!"

_He made out the hurried motion as Bupu dug out an old lizard out of her bag, probably the same lizard she had once tried to use to cure Raistlin. Fistandantilus wound a spell around her, and the cleric began to breathe again. An illusion, but the woman wasn't dead, and the Conclave would have to send her back in time to the only priest with the power to heal her, the Kingpriest._

_Raistlin pulled back behind the Wall. He hoped Bupu would be safe, he didn't care what happened to the other three idiots, but he hoped the gully dwarf would have the sense to stay out of this and go home._

_It would not be long now, whether the Conclave sent the cleric along or not, Fistandantilus believed they would, and would cast the spell to take him to Istar. Then it didn't matter how badly Fistandantilus' plan ended, he would be dead. At last. Raistlin shut out thought and went back to waiting. Not long now. For what time was worth in this place. Not long._

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dalamar didn't speak. He cursed in every language he knew within his own mind, but he didn't let his dismay show on his face. Fistandantilus' voice dropped to a lulling hiss. "Sleep, kender, sleep gull dwarf. And sleep you as well, Lady Crysania, in the realm where Paladin protects you." He beckoned, "And now come, Forest of Wayreth. Creep up on them as they sleep. Lure them onto your secret paths."

And they would be sent to Wayreth, Dalamar wasn't sure how this would help the lich. For all that Lord Soth had somehow failed (and wasn't that his fault for hoping that idiot Kitiara would finally do something right?), Crysania was all but dead. The power of her God had saved her, but as a cost, her body lived, but her soul had been drawn to safety among the gods she worshiped, and since not even the most powerful clerics could see into Paladine's realm, let alone call anyone from there, she'd stay there for good.

Which was why the Conclave, Dalamar realised, led by that fool Par-Salian, would see no other plan than to send her back in time to be healed by the Kingpriest. And never mind the danger of giving Fistandantilus the very thing he wanted. Dalamar knew Par-Salian well enough to realise this would be exactly what the bastard would do. He would happily sign off who knows how many to horrible fates in the name of 'fate' or 'the will of the gods' or 'the good of all', but if it actually came to killing someone, or doing nothing when he knew something could be done _never mind the consequences_, his raddled old conscience would allow nothing less. Dalamar dug his nails into his palms. He had to get to the Conclave. Either to warn them or to kill the cleric himself.

But first-

"And you come, apprentice. Come to my study. It is time for us to talk."

Dalamar followed Fistandantilus out of the Accused's cells, and looked around as they reached ground level; Andras Rannoch was hiding in the shadows of the stairwell. Dalamar couldn't speak without attracting the lich's attention, but Rannoch was no idiot, and could read Dalamar's face well enough to know it was going to be ugly. The spectre sank through the floor.

Well, what did he expect? Rannoch may be an ally, but he was also a helpless coward where Fistandantilus was concerned. And sweet Nuitari, who could blame him?

Dalamar sat facing the lich. The fire in the grating had been lit, as it had the first time Dalamar had seen this room. The warmth vied with the freezing cold emanating from Fistandantilus' spellbooks; Dalamar had risked opening them once, burning his hands, and had to close it immediately, The words were written in a script that, if looked at too long, would drive one mad. Fistandantilus had caught him, and what happened then was not something Dalamar wanted to think of, not now, when he was once again facing the lich.

He didn't flinch under the creature's dead eyes. Its fingers twitched over the binding of one spellbook after another, greedily, long, delicate fingers. Raistlin's hands. Fear vanished, burnt to ashes under the full force of Dalamar's hatred. He met those eyes fearlessly. Under the table, his hand clasped the hilt of his dagger, drawing it out and tucking it into the sleeve of his robe. If magic wasn't enough, cold steel would have to be. He didn't think Fistandantilus would let him leave this time unscathed.

When the lich spoke, Dalamar had to struggle not to flinch; he had been expecting a killing spell.

"You were very young, to have taken the Test."

Dalamar didn't speak.

"Perhaps ninety is young for an elf, but I, I was twenty-one."

He didn't react to that either, but let his eyelids droop a little, a quiet _who do you think you're fooling?_ If the lich was trying to get him angry enough to attack it, it was wasting its time. If nothing else, since he had come here Dalamar had learnt to keep his mouth shut.

"I passed, you saw me when I left that place, my hair white, my skin with this golden tint, and my eyes... You know what I see with my eyes, these hourglass eyes?"

You don't see anything. Dalamar cupped his chin in his hands, the dagger blade cold against his arm. They are not your eyes.

"With them I see time as it affect all things." And I hope your enjoy them, you rotting monster. "Human flesh withers before these eyes, flowers wilt and die, the very rocks themselves crumble under my sight. Even you, apprentice, even elven flesh ages that ages so slowly in the passing of the years are as rain showers in the spring -- even upon your young face Dalamar -- I see the mark of death!"

Dalamar managed not to flinch, even now; the lich was still able to sting him. He couldn't help but wonder, was this true? Was this what Raistlin had seen, but hadn't wanted to tell him? Dalamar threw the thoughts away. If it was, then Raistlin would not have been so eager to be close to him, and would have told him. Raistlin had never betrayed him, had never truly lied to him. Fistandantilus was a filthy liar and besides, perhaps this was how all undead saw the world.

"Do you not care." Mocking. "But then, you are brave, you have courage. When you stand behind me in the laboratory, facing those I have dragged from the planes of existence, you are brave. You knew that if I but drew breath at the wrong time, they would tear the hearts from our bodies and devour them while we writhed before them in torment."

"I did not fear." Dalamar's voice was flat. You do not breathe, or rely on a beating heart, and probably cannot even feel pain, and if those things did tear us to pieces, I would die with a glad heart as long as you died too.

"I have seen that." Fistandantilus smiled, it was sickening. "And you knew, did you not, that if such an event occurred, I would save myself and not you?"

Dalamar didn't speak, staring it in the eye. If the lich thought this would wound him it was sadly mistaken.

"For the magic."

"For Nuitari." Dalamar murmured. For vengeance.

The lich was silent, and Dalamar dared to hope he would be able to excuse himself and run from this Tower long enough to warn the Conclave and kill the cleric. But then, "I wonder, apprentice, at the heights of your ambitions. Have you never guessed at mine?"

This time Dalamar hesitated, although he managed to keep his face impassive. How much could he say? Less would be best. He had been silent thus far, and let the lich draw his own conclusions, now to go back to playing the fool apprentice.

"I have wondered, _Shalafi_. You are powerful." It was painful to admit anything that could be constituted as a compliment. "This city, this land of Solamnia, this continent of Ansalon could be yours."

"You think I wish to rule the world." Mocking again. "But my ambition goes further."

Was it planning to actually tell Dalamar? It must know that no matter what it promised, Dalamar would never join it. But surely, it still needed the Conclave to send it its cleric, and it would not risk angering them by killing Dalamar, even at this late date.

"You have seen the great door at the very back of the laboratory? The door of steel, with runes of silver and gold set within? The door without a lock?"

Yes. He was going to tell him. Dalamar didn't blink. "Yes."

"Do you know where it leads?" Amused.

"Yes." No _Shalafi _now.

"And you know why it is not opened?"

"Only one of great and powerful magic, and one of true and holy powers may open the door." Dalamar recited.

"You already know, do you not?" Fistandantilus looked more thoughtful than amused now. Somehow, it had only now realised Dalamar knew. "You already know the heights -- and the depths -- of my ambitions."

Dalamar shrugged one shoulder, as though he couldn't care less about the possible replacement of one of his gods by the creature in front of him.

"You think me mad? You must think me mad, if it was my sister who told you this."

I think you dead. I dream you dead. You will die.

"It is madness, with my powers as they are." Ah, bitterness. "That is why I am about to undertake a journey."

Well, if it was about to tell him anyway. "To the past, and Istar, and the Kingpriest." And may you judge time wrong and land right under the Cataclysm.

"You are right." Fistandantilus frowned, Raistlin's thin white brows drawing together in a way utterly unsuited to the thin face; and Dalamar wondered if he actually worried the lich. "You are quite right. How very astute. And I dare say you know what happened to Lady Crysania?"

"Her soul is with Paladine, her body is all but dead, but you made her body show signs of life to keep Caramon Majere from burying her."

Fistandantilus nodded. "Astute, as I said. A useful trait for a spy."

Dalamar didn't show any sign of shock. Instead he rose to his feet. He hunched forward a little, as though about to bow in farewell, but that was only to hide the thunderous beating of his heart, which he was sure could be see through his robes.

"What, no denials, apprentice?"

Dalamar smiled slightly, the first time he had ever smiled in front of the lich, and shook his head. Then he lunged.

For once, Dalamar had managed to surprise Fistandantilus. He'd gotten across the table and thrown out his dagger before the lich managed to screech a shielding spell. Dalamar's dagger blade screamed against it, so close it rent the lich's black robes.

Dalamar's free hand struck it in the face, that familiar alien face, he dropped the useless dagger and rammed his fist into the lich's abdomen. He was no longer thinking as a mage, because fighting as a mage would do nothing against this monster. He was fighting as he had in Tarsis, fighting as he would against a muscled thug or a she-whore trying to oust him from her patch. He brought his head down hard against Fistandantilus', knocking it back, and punched it again in the stomach, trying to knock the breath out of it, as his other hand tightened around it's throat.

But a dead mage had no breath to lose.

Dalamar did not hear what spell Fistandantilus cast, too mad with finally released rage and grief to even hear it. He felt the lich's hand scrabbling against his chest before pressing flat, trying to push him away. Dalamar almost laughed. The lich had inherited Raistlin's strength along with his body, if it thought-

The pain almost blinded him. Dalamar threw his head back and screamed, hurling himself away from the hand that felt as though it were burning straight through him. His legs refused to carry him, and Dalamar collapsed, coughing to keep from screaming.

Fistandantilus had collapsed against the desk, its robes torn, its dead flesh bruised, hacking hard and clutching at its throat where Dalamar had almost throttled it. "Give Par-Salian my regards..." Its voice gave way and it coughed. "Apprentice!" And disappeared.

Dalamar groaned, the pain in his chest wasn't abating and gods, it hurt. He lay back, trying to breathe and feeling absurdly clear-headed. It had run away. The lich had run away. Well. That was something if nothing else. He coughed again, then decided there was no reason to keep it in and screamed. Then screamed, then screamed again. He kept screaming until a bottle clinked beside him. Dalamar drew in a ragged breath, and looked at it. A potion of healing, and with Andras Rannoch leaning over him looking as concerned as a spectre could manage.

"...Won't do much." Dalamar groaned as he sat up, and pulled the seared robes away from his chest. It hurt less without them there. Five holes burnt into his chest from a spell so lethal it destroyed everything it touched. "It won't heal."

And it never would. It was Fistandantilus' spell, and he could feel it still burning his flesh. It would keep burning forever, draining his strength and feeding it to the lich. Dalamar coughed again, it might have been a laugh. The same spell. He would bet his life, whatever that was worth; that this was the exact same spell the lich had cast on Raistlin. It had been through that spell the lich had kept Raistlin weak, and it was through that spell that Fistandantilus had killed Raistlin, and it was through this spell that it meant to kill Dalamar.

"It knows I'm a threat." Dalamar pushed himself backwards until he was resting against the wall. The pain had faded as much as it would, as it ever would. "It did this," His head dropped back against the wall, gasping. "It did this because it means it will be able to kill me at once if I stand against it."

Rannoch's eyes were lower down that usual, although whether that meant it was kneeling or just sinking through the floor was uncertain. It looked concerned.

"It doesn't mean much." Dalamar managed a smile. "I will wait in the laboratory for it to come back. It will be weak from fighting the Dark Queen. I will push it back through the portal to Her tender mercies. I don't think it can kill me that fast." But it would kill him, that was all but certain. It would kill him, and Dalamar knew what that meant.

It meant an eternity here, an eternity in the Tower as a spectre. In this cold and dark and dead alone save for the other dead, never to feel the magic, never to truly die and never to see Raistlin again. But sweet Nuitari what was the alternative? To live, or die outside the tower, and let the lich carry out its plans and... and... Dalamar didn't even want to think about what that would mean, but he didn't think being dead would stop the lich from tormenting him if it decided to. Sweet Nuitari, this wasn't for him, this wasn't how things were supposed to work. But here he was, in the Tower, alone but for an undead spectre, and the only thing standing between Fistandantilus and Godhood.

"Sweet Nuitari." Dalamar moaned. "Sweet Nuitari." Andras Rannoch watched in helpless silence as the Dark elf doubled over and wept.


	4. Valhalla

_Yes, yes I know, really long wait, again. If it's any cosolation, I am working on an original piece, but it'll have more in common with Past tense than this fic. While I cannot promise regular updates, I will try and get some more work done on this fic, and at least wrap up Legends._

_So, finally, the showdown!  
_

**Temporal**

**Valhalla**

The first Raistlin knew of it was the sudden weakening of the Wall. Excitement crackled around him like lightning, at last. At last! Finally they were on the move!

The spell to split time (Timespin, Raistlin felt the spell drag over their shared mind like a curtain of rain) drained the lich of so much strength that the wall became completely transparent. Raistlin cloaked himself is silence, stilled his mind and slipped out to watch behind his own eyes.

He paid little attention to the alien landscape around them, the many spiralled and turreted Istar. There would be time later to see this. There would have to be. The very concept of failure was one that made Raistlin's very thoughts shake. And now, so very close to the end, the final end, he was terrified to even plan ahead more than a few steps, in case Fistandantilus heard him.

He probably shouldn't worry, the lich was so tired by the exertion that he slumped against the high wall of a nearby building, breathing heavily. His thoughts snapped through to Raistlin like whips. This was Istar, enemy to all mages. He was here a stranger, not yet the Dark One feared by all (not yet, not yet, Raistlin carefully guided that thought away from the reefs and rocks of realisation). He must hide. Yes. Hide and seek out his other self. Yes. Kill him at once and take his place, and the freedom that would allow him to proceed with the plan in peace. Yes. To killed his other self now! Before it could realise he was here and struck first!

Raistlin pulled away, it would be a risk attacking now, with the lich tired, but they would have the element of surprise, and Fistandantilus seemed to be quite confident he could win. Beside, now that he was so close, so very close to finally being free, the thought of remaining with the lich in his mind for a moment longer than necessary was repellent. Do it now. Kill it now. End it now. Finally.

They barely needed magic to pass unseen through the crowds of Istar, but even that small drain weakened the barriers further, everything coming into sharper focus, the colours brighter, the details dazzling. Slipping unseen past guards in the baroque armour of a nation that hadn't seen true war in centuries. Past flamboyant courtiers who shuddered and pulled up the collars of their fine robes instinctively in their wake. Through a palace so beautiful that Raistlin wondered what it would look like once he was free, even behind the wall it was overwhelming, it would be blinding if seen with bare eyes.

There was even sound now. Muffled and dim, as though coming from underwater, as they descended steps leading deep into the ground, following Fistandantilus' mental map to his laboratory. Their footsteps rang out, one hand scratching along the bare brick and Raistlin could feel Fistandantilus' every thought, every stolen sense, stretching to catch any sight of his other self, the only enemy he would ever consider his equal.

Raistlin wondered if it was his heart beating so loudly, or just the memory of what being nervous felt like. It wasn't fear. Raistlin wondered if he was even capable of fear any more. It was more of a sensation of being suspended, where the slightest error would send him tumbling to oblivion, as though the entire world were holding its breath, and not just the collected thoughts of Fistandantilus and Raistlin Majere.

The staircase opened out into an anteroom, a fire was burning in the grate and Raistlin heard the lich's thoughts (so clearly! The walls were weak indeed) that he must have just had an apprentice, or was expecting one. Why else would a dead being require warmth?

Then through the far door, and into the laboratory.

Raistlin's immediate thoughts, despite his plans, despite the danger, despite everything, was that if he was unable to take everything here with him, he would stash it somewhere safe and go and find it once he'd returned to his own time. None of the disgusting trinkets and baubles of lesser mages; no crystal balls or servile imps. Nothing but books, shelf after shelf of books, and although his thoughts were louder than he meant them it didn't matter, because they had meshed perfectly with Fistandantilus'.

Raistlin's head turned, moved by strings of ice, and like a puppet, he moved into the room. Stopped at the sound of movement behind the far door. Raistlin strived not to think at all, nothing, nothing. Feel nothing think nothing, do nothing to attract attention.

"A little early, my impudent apprentice." And nothing would ever have prepared Raistlin for hearing that voice again, ringing staccato in his mind in a million echoes. Even the lich clawing at his mind was momentarily stunned. Then the dark mage came into view.

This time, Raistlin was sure the world stopped. Had the Cataclysm happened at that moment, the very burning mountain would have paused above Istar, to witness what happened next. Through stolen eyes, the two liches stared at each other. Fistandantilus' mind writhed, unable to cope with the simple knowledge that he was standing_ here_ yet at the same time _over there_.

The other Fistandantilus was much like he had appeared to Raistlin in the Test. Cold, dark, cruel, decay reeking from every pore every at this distance. He must have been expecting another poor fool to suck dry.

They moved first, Raistlin's throat twisted to let out a roar that had nothing human or even undead about it. It was pure animal denial. The lich's mind bucked until it was all Raistlin could do to hang on at the edges, the lich screeching out a spell he only caught the tail end of.

Shards of ice hammered the other Fistandantilus, who was knocked out of his trance, and howled an attack back.

Raistlin allowed himself a scream of triumph. The lich had lost. Even if the other Fistandantilus were to win this, and kill them both, he would still have lost, trapping the other lich in an endless loop where he would always progress along the same path, and go back in time and die. No matter who won this battle, he would die.

Fistandantilus didn't even notice, every part of him so bent on destroying his other self, this thing that should not be, that every wall feel as though it had never been. Raistlin's senses came back with a snap, the gloom of the room, the crash and howl of the spells, the smell of damp and decay and magic, the feeling of the arcane energy flowing through him - and oh, how he had missed that! - the taste of his own blood where the lich had gnawed on his lip hard enough to split the skin.

It was almost overwhelming, and he couldn't let it be. Raistlin focuses and hurled his own power into the battle, add strength to every spell and incantation. Both liches were so maddened by the sight of each other they barely noticed. Pouring energy freely into every motion: come on! Come on! We can win this we can win this! Fistandantilus' plan might be in ruins, but Raistlin was determined to come out of this alive, alive and victorious!

Spells cast so fast they were barely more than raw magic, hardly having the time to settle into fire or cold or lightning before they were dispelled or dodged or, more and more often, slammed into their target. The other Fistandantilus was faltering. It was weaker, it had been expecting a new body, to exchange its tired, decaying bones for youth and vigour. It snarled, managed to dodge the next attack and cast something which Raistlin wasn't even able to see, which hammered into them like a falling anvil. They staggered back, and the other lich lunged, hand grasping around its neck for an all-too familiar bloodstone pendant. Raistlin had only seen it once, but would never forget it.

Rage sparked along every one of the lich's thought. That was his! That was his! Pain forgotten, Raistlin forgotten, the next spell forced the other lich back and they closed, Raistlin's stolen hands reaching out to snatch the pendant.

Raistlin hovered carefully, slowly extending his mind to grasp at the lich's without him noticing, while preparing the cage he had spent so long constructing. Any moment. Any moment.

Now! The final spell sent the other Fistandantilus crumbling to the ground. The lich ordered Raistlin's hand out greedily towards the pendant. Then, just then, with the lich's every thought bent on his prize. It was then. Raistlin snagged the lich's consciousness like a hook does a fish, and dragged him back out of his mind, behind the Wall, into the cage, and the door slammed shut and sealed. The explosion of being back in his own body was such that Raistlin had to will himself into moving, gripping the pendant that throbbed hot and cold in his hand like some inhuman heart. He could hear Fistandantilus roaring in his mind, feel the edges of the cage start to give under the onslaught of the lich's desperate rage.

His other self was less of a challenge. Any appearance of youth or humanity was long gone from the face. It appeared as Raistlin had seen it during his Test. A rotting corpse too stupid to know it was already dead. It looked up at him and for a moment, Raistlin was sure it knew him. Could see through his mind to its trapped, screaming other self, and through that knew the being which was about to kill it.

The hand grasping the pendant came down with all the pent-up fury and frustration of being trapped in his own mind, and the hatred and degradation of the five years before. His blow punched straight through the lich's rotted ribcage, the worm-eaten bones splintering and drawing blood where they scratched him, the soft and swollen internal organs bursting and Raistlin was sure he could feel worms crawling over his skin.

The other lich reached up to claw at Raistlin's chest, in a reversal of the last moments of his Test. But the bone were too brittle, the tendons to frail, and they barely tore his robes. In his mind Fistandantilus tried to force his way through, failed, and screamed. He screamed like Raistlin imagined he himself had screamed, when the lich had dragged him away from Dalamar in the Blood Sea. And endless shriek that needed no pause for breath, more sensation than sound, more thought that either.

The walls around them narrowed to a spinning tunnel around them, like being inside a tornado, and the lich's mind fell apart.

Thoughts, knowledge, everything that the lich had every thought or seen or heard or read. Everything in a millennia-long existence. Everything he and his Istar counterpart had ever born witness to drove into Raistlin's mind like a hurricane. Fragments hurtled everywhere but Raistlin had been able to hold himself together as a prisoner in his own mind, nothing could touch him now. He saw glimpses of places unimagined and familiar, saw faces from a thousand years ago, a hundred years to come, saw his own face, and for a moment he even thought he saw Dalamar's. He saw everything, standing there in the heart of the storm, one hand crushing Fistandantilus' heart, the other clutched to his head as he watched the greatest archmage die.

And then...

And then.

Then the storm passed. And Raistlin was once against shivering on the floor, one hand buried up to the elbow in a corpse, the other trembling so hard his fingers were blurred. The old lich might have been ancient, but Raistlin had absorbed so much energy he could barely remain still. Every inch of him was shaking, and nothing, nothing had every felt so glorious. He stumbled to his feet, letting go of the bloodstone and leaving it inside Fistandantilus' corpse. There was an enormous hole in his mind where the lich had been, but it was already filling up with thoughts. Raistlin looked down at his hands, one scalded red from so much casting, the other black to the elbow with ancient blood. He was absolutely freezing. His body was so cold even the stones felt warm in comparison. His fingers ached from being hooked into Fistandantilus' claws for so long, and he flexed them, still marvelling at being able to do something so simple.

He looked around again, at all the spellbooks lining the walls. All Fistandantilus' spellbooks, written and collected over the millennia of the lich's existence. He could even see the lich writing them in his mind's eye, the memories called up on a whim. He could take them now, read even the greatest of them without fear of going mad. They were his now. He was the Master of Past and Present.

Raistlin threw back his head and howled. He couldn't help it. It had been so long (how long? He still had no idea of time). He was alive. He was himself. He was alone. He hadn't been alone in his own mind since the Test. He clutched at his face and got rotting blood all over his cheek and one eye. Himself, himself, the same nose and mouth and face, even thinner than he remembered them (Fistandantilus must not have bothered eating much).  
He even looked as he had before the Test, his skin was pale, rather than burnished gold, and his hair was the same familiar shade of red. It would not last, he would revert the moment he returned to his own time, and there too waited his blasted cough and Par-Salian's curse. But here he was whole and relatively hale, as much as he ever had been, surrounded by a world which didn't crumble to dust when he looked at it.

He would do something about it, Raistlin decided. He had the power, and now he had the knowledge (although it would take a while to pick through the mess of Fistandantilus' memories), and finally, finally he had the time. He would take these books and go back. Leave his brother and that revolting cleric to the tender mercies of Istar: they could go home or be squashed flat, he didn't care. It wasn't his problem. He could go home! Go home and track down Dalamar and finally -

The dead lich's memories stirred.

Dalamar.

Raistlin froze, one hand still dragging black streaks down his face.


End file.
